Smoothly the huge engine came
gliding into the station--a dumb,
silent creature now, drawing
slowly to a standstill as though
exhausted after its great effort.
Through the windows of the saloon
the station-master could see
the train attendant bending over
this mysterious passenger, who
did not seem, as yet, to have
made any preparations for leaving
his place. Mr. Hamilton Fynes
was seated at a table covered
with papers, but he was leaning
back as though he had been or
was still asleep. The station-master
stepped forward, and as he did
so the attendant came hurrying
out to the platform, and, pushing
back the porters, called to him
by name.
"Mr. Rice," he said, "If
you please, sir, will you come
this
way?"
The station-master acceded
at once to the man's request
and entered the saloon. The attendant
clutched at his arm nervously.
He was a pale, anaemic-looking
little person at any time, but
his face just now was positively
ghastly.
"What on earth is the matter
with you?" the station-master
asked brusquely.
"There's something wrong with
my passenger, sir," the man declared
in a shaking voice. "I can't
make him answer me. He won't
look up, and I don't--I don't
think he's asleep. An hour ago
I took him some whiskey. He told
me not to disturb him again--he
had some papers to go through."
The station-master leaned over
the table. The eyes of the man
who sat there were perfectly
wide-open, but there was something
unnatural in their fixed stare,--something
unnatural, too, in the drawn
grayness of his face.
"This is Euston, sir," the
station-master began,--"the terminus--"
Then he broke off in the middle
of his sentence. A cold shiver
was creeping through his veins.
He, too, began to stare; he felt
the color leaving his own cheeks.
With an effort he turned to the
attendant.
"Pull down the blinds," he
ordered, in a voice which he
should never have recognized
as his own. "Quick! Now turn
out those porters, and tell the
inspector to stop anyone from
coming into the car."
The attendant, who was shaking
like a leaf, obeyed. The station-master
turned away and drew a long breath.
He himself was conscious of a
sense of nausea, a giddiness
which was almost overmastering.
This was a terrible thing to
face without a second's warning.
He had not the slightest doubt
but that the man who was seated
at the table was dead!
At such an hour there were
only a few people upon the platform,
and two stalwart station policemen
easily kept back the loiterers
whose curiosity had been excited
by the arrival of the special.
A third took up his position
with his back to the entrance
of the saloon, and allowed no
one to enter it till the return
of the station-master, who had
gone for a doctor. The little
crowd was completely mystified.
No one had the slightest idea
of what had happened. The attendant
was besieged by questions, but
he was sitting on the step of
the car, in the shadow of a policeman,
with his head buried in his hands,
and he did not once look up.
Some of the more adventurous
tried to peer through the windows
at the lower end of the saloon.
Others rushed off to interview
the guard. In a very few minutes,
however, the station-master reappeared
upon the scene, accompanied by
the doctor. The little crowd
stood on one side and the two
men stepped into the car.
The doctor proceeded at once
with his examination. Mr. Hamilton
Fynes, this mysterious person
who had succeeded, indeed, in
making a record journey, was
leaning back in the corner of
his seat, his arms folded, his
head drooping a little, but his
eyes still fixed in that unseeing
stare. His body yielded itself
unnaturally to the touch. For
the main truth the doctor needed
scarcely a glance at him.
"Is he dead?" the
station-master asked.
"Stone-dead!" was
the brief answer.
"Good God!" the station-master
muttered. "Good God!"
The doctor had thrown his handkerchief
over the dead man's face. He
was standing now looking at him
thoughtfully.
"Did he die in his sleep, I
wonder?" the station-master asked. "It
must have been horribly sudden!
Was it heart disease?"
The doctor did not reply for
a moment. He seemed to be thinking
out some problem.
"The body had better be removed
to the station mortuary," he
said at last. "Then, if I were
you, I should have the saloon
shunted on to a siding and left
absolutely untouched. You had
better place two of your station
police in charge while you telephone
to Scotland Yard."
"To Scotland Yard?" the
station-master exclaimed.
The doctor nodded. He looked
around as though to be sure that
none of that anxious crowd outside
could overhear.
"There's no question of heart
disease here," he explained. "The
man has been murdered!"
The station-master was horrified,--horrified
and blankly incredulous.
"Murdered!" he repeated. "Why,
it's impossible! There was no
one else on the train except
the attendant--not a single other
person. All my advices said one
passenger only."
The doctor touched the man's
coat with his finger, and the
station-master saw what he had
not seen before,--saw what made
him turn away, a little sick.
He was a strong man, but he was
not used to this sort of thing,
and he had barely recovered yet
from the first shock of finding
himself face to face with a dead
man. Outside, the crowd upon
the platform was growing larger.
White faces were being pressed
against the windows at the lower
end of the saloon.
"There is no question about
the man having been murdered," the
doctor said, and even his voice
shook a little. "His own hand
could never have driven that
knife home. I can tell you, even,
how it was done. The man who
stabbed him was in the compartment
behind there, leaned over, and
drove this thing down, just missing
the shoulder. There was no struggle
or fight of any sort. It was
a diabolical deed!"
"Diabolical indeed!" the
station-master echoed hoarsely.
"You had better give orders
for us to be shunted down on
to a siding just as we are," the
doctor continued, "and send one
of your men to telephone to Scotland
Yard. Perhaps it would be as
well, too, not to touch those
papers until some one comes.
See that the attendant does not
go home, or the guard. They will
probably be wanted to answer
questions."
The station-master stepped
out to the platform, summoned
an inspector, and gave a few
brief orders. Slowly the saloon
was backed out of the station
again on to a neglected siding,
a sort of backwater for spare
carriages and empty trucks,--an
ignominious resting place, indeed,
after its splendid journey thought
the night. The doors at both
ends were closed and two policemen
placed on duty to guard them.
The doctor and the station-master
seated themselves out of sight
of their gruesome companion,
and the station-master told all
that he knew about the despatch
of the special and the man who
had ordered it. The attendant,
who still moved about like a
man in a dream, brought them
some brandy and soda and served
them with shaking hand. They
all three talked together in
whispers, the attendant telling
them the few incidents of the
journey down, which, except for
the dead man's nervous desire
for solitude, seemed to possess
very little significance. Then
at last there was a sharp tap
at the window. A tall, quietly
dressed man, with reddish skin
and clear gray eyes, was helped
up into the car. He saluted the
doctor mechanically. His eyes
were already travelling around
the saloon.
"Inspector Jacks from Scotland
Yard, sir," he announced. "I
have another man outside. If
you don't mind, we'll have him
in."
"By all means," the station-master
answered. "I am afraid that you
will find this rather a serious
affair. We have left everything
untouched so far as we could."
The second detective was assisted
to clamber up into the car. It
seemed, however, as though the
whole force of Scotland Yard
could scarcely do much towards
elucidating an affair which,
with every question which was
asked and answered, grew more
mysterious. The papers upon the
table before the dead man were
simply circulars and prospectuses
of no possible importance. His
suitcase contained merely a few
toilet necessaries and some clean
linen. There was not a scrap
of paper or even an envelope
of any sort in his pockets. In
a small leather case they found
a thousand dollars in American
notes, five ten-pound Bank of
England notes, and a single visiting
card on which was engraved the
name of Mr. Hamilton Fynes. In
his trousers pocket was a handful
of gold. He had no other personal
belongings of any sort. The space
between the lining of his coat
and the material itself was duly
noticed, but it was empty. His
watch was a cheap one, his linen
unmarked, and his clothes bore
only the name of a great New
York retail establishment. He
had certainly entered the train
alone, and both the guard and
attendant were ready to declare
positively that no person could
have been concealed in it. The
engine-driver, on his part, was
equally ready to swear that not
once from the moment when they
had steamed out of Liverpool
Station until they had arrived
within twenty miles of London,
had they travelled at less than
forty miles an hour. At Willington
he had found a signal against
him which had brought him nearly
to a standstill, and under the
regulations he had passed through
the station at ten miles an hour.
These were the only occasions,
however, on which he had slackened
speed at all. The train attendant,
who was a nervous man, began
to shiver again and imagine unmentionable
things. The guard, who had never
left his own brake, went home
and dreamed that his effigy had
been added to the collection
of Madame Tussaud. The reporters
were the only people who were
really happy, with the exception,
perhaps of Inspector Jacks, who
had a weakness for a difficult
case.
Fifteen miles north of London,
a man lay by the roadside in
the shadow of a plantation of
pine trees, through which he
had staggered only a few minutes
ago. His clothes were covered
with dust, he had lost his cap,
and his trousers were cut about
the knee as though from a fall.
He was of somewhat less than
medium height, dark, slender,
with delicate features, and hair
almost coal black. His face,
as he moved slowly from side
to side upon the grass, was livid
with pain. Every now and then
he raised himself and listened.
The long belt of main road, which
passed within a few feet of him,
seemed almost deserted. Once
a cart came lumbering by, and
the man who lay there, watching,
drew closely back into the shadows.
A youth on a bicycle passed,
singing to himself. A boy and
girl strolled by, arm in arm,
happy, apparently, in their profound
silence. Only a couple of fields
away shone the red and green
lights of the railway track.
Every few minutes the goods-trains
went rumbling over the metals.
The man on the ground heard them
with a shiver. Resolutely he
kept his face turned in the opposite
direction. The night mail went
thundering northward, and he
clutched even at the nettles
which grew amongst the grass
where he was crouching, as though
filled with a sudden terror.
Then there was silence once more--silence
which became deeper as the hour
approached midnight. Passers-by
were fewer; the birds and animals
came out from their hiding places.
A rabbit scurried across the
road; a rat darted down the tiny
stream. Now and then birds moved
in the undergrowth, and the man,
who was struggling all the time
with a deadly faintness, felt
the silence grow more and more
oppressive. He began even to
wonder where he was. He closed
his eyes. Was that really the
tinkling of a guitar, the perfume
of almond and cherry blossom,
floating to him down the warm
wind? He began to lose himself
in dreams until he realized that
actual unconsciousness was close
upon him. Then he set his teeth
tight and clenched his hands.
Away in the distance a faint,
long-expected sound came travelling
to his ears. At last, then, his
long wait was over. Two fiery
eyes were stealing along the
lonely road. The throb of an
engine was plainly audible. He
staggered up, swaying a little
on his feet, and holding out
his hands. The motor car came
to a standstill before him, and
the man who was driving it sprang
to the ground. Words passed between
them rapidly,--questions and
answers,--the questions of an
affectionate servant, and the
answers of a man fighting a grim
battle for consciousness. But
these two spoke in a language
of their own, a language which
no one who passed along that
road was likely to understand.
With a groan of relief the
man who had been picked up sank
back amongst the cushioned seats,
carefully almost tenderly, aided
by the chauffeur. Eagerly he
thrust his hand into one of the
leather pockets and drew out
a flask of brandy. The rush of
cold air, as the car swung round
and started off, was like new
life to him. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, they
had come to a standstill underneath
a red lamp.
"The doctor's!" he
muttered to himself, and, staggering
out,
rang the bell.
Dr. Spencer Whiles had had
a somewhat dreary day, and was
thoroughly enjoying a late rubber
of bridge with three of his most
agreeable neighbors. A summons
into the consulting room, however,
was so unexpected a thing that
he did not hesitate for a moment
to obey it, without even waiting
to complete a deal. When he entered
the apartment, he saw a slim
but determined-looking young
man, whose clothes were covered
with dust, and who, although
he sat with folded arms and grim
face, was very nearly in a state
of collapse.
"You seem to have met with
an accident," the doctor remarked. "How
did it happen?"
"I have been run over by a
motor car," his patient said,
speaking slowly and with something
singularly agreeable in his voice
notwithstanding its slight accent
of pain. "Can you patch me up
till I get to London?"
The doctor looked him over.
"What were you doing in the
road?" he asked.
"I was riding a bicycle," the
other answered. "I dare say it
was my own fault; I was certainly
on the wrong side of the road.
You can see what has happened
to me. I am bruised and cut;
my side is painful, and also
my knee. A car is waiting outside
now to take me to my home, but
I thought that I had better stop
and see you."
The doctor was a humane man,
with a miserable practice, and
he forgot all about his bridge
party. For half an hour he worked
over his patient. At the end
of that time he gave him a brandy
and soda and placed a box of
cigarettes before him.
"You'll do all right now," he
said. "That's a nasty cut on
your leg, but you've no broken
bones."
"I feel absolutely well again,
thank you very much," the young
man said. "I will smoke a cigarette,
if I may. The brandy, I thank
you, no!"
"Just as you like," the doctor
answered. "I won't say that you
are not better without it. Help
yourself to the cigarettes. Are
you going back to London in the
motor car, then?"
"Yes!" the patient answered. "It
is waiting outside for me now,
and I must not keep the man any
longer. Will you let me know,
if you please, how much I owe
you?"
The doctor hesitated. Fees
were a rare thing with him, and
the evidences of his patient's
means were somewhat doubtful.
The young man put his hand into
his pocket.
"I am afraid," he said, "that
I am not a very presentable-looking
object, but I am glad to assure
you that I am not a poor man.
I am able to pay your charges
and to still feel that the obligation
is very much on my side.
The doctor summoned up his
courage.
"We will say a guinea, then,"he
remarked with studied indifference.
"You must allow me to make
it a little more than that," the
patient answered. "Your treatment
was worth is. I feel perfectly
recovered already. Good night,
sir!"
The doctor's eyes sparkled
as he glanced at the gold which
his visitor had laid upon the
table.
"You are very good, I'm sure," he
murmured. "I hope you will have
a comfortable journey. With a
nerve like yours, you'll be all
right in a day or so."
He let his patient out and
watched him depart with some
curiosity, watched until the
great motor-car had swung round
the corner of the street and
started on its journey to London.
"No bicycle there," he remarked
to himself, as he closed the
door. "I wonder what they did
with it."
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